Artists Start Young
by Sgt.S.Pepper
Summary: After the welcoming visit of a "friend", little Freddy wants nothing more than to show his mother his latest piece of art... and prepare her for things to come


Artists Start Young  
  
The sound of a soft and gentle hum filtered through the air and danced gently upon the eardrums of anybody near. This hum was the tune of innocence so graceful as it danced along the breath of a small 4 year old boy, another cliché of innocence being the picture of this child. The boy's attention was focused on a piece of paper and his set of brightly coloured crayons, none of which had been used apart from a dark green, a red, a brown, a black and an orange.  
  
The child busily drew away on his paper, rips and tears evident on the sides as if he had ripped it out from a book of some sort. But obviously these thoughts had not crossed his mind as the child continued his picture without hesitation or thought. Every few minutes, he would drop one colour and pick up the next, before using it to his desire and dropping it back down and picking up another. This play was so similar to the acts of a lot of men those days, picking up a woman, using her to his desire before dropping her back to the road and picking up a new one. But, just like crayons, there was always an ending. A crayon after being used for so long would eventually become so small and unwanted that it would never be picked up again, as a woman who, after she is used to a terrible extent, is thrown away and forgotten about until she no longer breathes.  
  
But to any 'sane' person, making a comparison between an innocent child and his crayons with a man and his whores was sickening and unheard of. Unless of course that child would grow up to be that man. But these thoughts were shun away by the ever so loving yet very ignorant people of Springwood.  
  
The boy dropped his crayon and smiled proudly at his work, before picking up another colour and signing his name on the top, just like he had seen other artists much like himself do. The letters f-r-e-d-y were scrawled out on the top of the page with red crayons, the bottoms of the letters being dragged down to the middle of the page as if they were dripping. "Fredy", or Freddy, as his name was more often spelt, threw the now unwanted crayon down and stood up hastily, picking the picture up and running into the kitchen. He slapped it down on the tall kitchen bench as he scrambled his small and lithe form up one of the large barstool type chairs. Not once during this whole experience had he stopped his little hum, instead it was deeper and much more louder than before.  
  
Once he was sitting up comfortably, little Freddy once again stared down at his picture, waiting for it to come alive right in front of his eyes. A sudden noise lifted Freddy from his stance and he looked up to see a figure standing before him.  
  
"Hi." said little Freddy with a smile, something he was not very known for doing in public. He twisted his head to the side, waiting for his 'friend' to do something. Little Freddy watched as the figure stepped forward and looked down at the picture, before making a gesture that made little Freddy smile, and turn his head towards the left, finding his eyes tracing the cutting board lying on the table with a large serrated knife on it. Freddy slowly climbed onto the table and reached across, grabbing the knife in his little palms. He crawled backwards, back down onto his chair and once again, sat staring between his work and the figure in front. The figure once again made a gesture to which Freddy smiled to, as he cut 4 long rips into his paper, side by side. He assisted his knife with his fingers as he ripped at the paper, his little voice humming sweetly to the sounds of tearing paper.  
  
He dropped the knife when all was done, feeling proud of his artwork. He looked up to the figure, his little eyes pleading for acceptance from the man. In return, he received a somewhat proud, yet sadistic grin and little Freddy jumped from his seat, knife and picture still in hand.  
  
"You like it?" he asked, grinning, throwing his hand out to the figure.  
"Love it!" the figure said in a playful tone. He reached his hand out to grasp the boy's picture. Four knives led the way over, digging deep and hard into the child's arm, who only smiled wider.  
"This looks just like me!" the man said with a smile. "I think your mummy will like this!"  
"Really?!" asked little Freddy happily.  
"Of course! And don't forget to set the mood!" the man sneered.  
The child smiled happily and nodded, dashing out of the room.  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
"Freddy? Sweety, I'm home!" The sweet sound of "mother dear's" voice ran through Freddy's head as he drowsily rose from where he had fallen asleep on the floor in his bedroom.  
  
"Freddy?"  
"Coming bitch." The 4 year old snarled under his breath as he exited his comfort zone and entered her territory.  
"Honey, you're bleeding!" she cried racing by his side and gently running her fingers along side of the cuts. "Let me clean it."  
"No mummy." Said Freddy blankly.  
"Wha-what?" she asked confused.  
"No mummy." Freddy stated again, this time slower for her sluggish mind to distinguish.  
"Ok." She said softly, staring into her son's cold dark eyes that almost seemed to tear at her flesh as they pierced into her.  
  
Freddy turned and left the room, going back towards his bedroom. Amanda Krueger stood there, shocked and saddened. She let out a sigh and walked down the corridor towards her bedroom.  
* * * * * * * * * *  
  
If she had been sitting, watching a movie, she would have screamed yet idly waited for what would happen next. If she were in someone else's house, she would have ran to a telephone and dialed the police. But none of these were true. Here she stood, in her own house, in the doorway of her own bedroom, fear and terror stricken looking into the room she called her own. It wasn't the fact that it was scribbled out on the very top of her wall, it wasn't the fact that the markings had been made with blood as shown in the dragged finger prints across her ceiling. It was the fact that in the middle of all the mess and gore, a small picture was pinned to a wall by 4 serrated knives, the letters "f-r-e-d-y" reading across the top.  
  
A man had been drawn using thick coloured crayons. He wore a green and red Christmas sweater, dirt brown pants and shoes, along with a dark brown fedora sitting upon his red and orange face. A hand of knives caught her attention, as she slipped backwards and fell to the ground, shaking. Four rips across the page and a knife rammed into the wall pinning the picture up gleamed at her and tore their way into her head and memory, a vision she would not forget. Underneath, the carvings from something sharp into her wall whispered a song unheard to her.  
  
"I bet you regret him."  
  
"Mother?" the sickly voice of a 4 year old sung to her. "Mother, I was colouring just for you... I hope you don't mind the mess..." 


End file.
